


The Hollow Now

by agnesanutter, emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Baby Watson, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Romance, post-HLV, probably inaccurate science and medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnesanutter/pseuds/agnesanutter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost two years after the events of HLV, John has an accident and loses all memory of the last four years of his life: meeting Mary, Sherlock returning, and everything since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Benedictcumberbatchruinedme](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Benedictcumberbatchruinedme).
  * Translation into Español available: [El presente hueco (The Hollow Now)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929204) by [Canterbury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canterbury/pseuds/Canterbury)



> BEFORE YOU READ: Note that this fic is **unfinished** and, at this point, is unlikely to be continued. The first four chapters were written by Emma Grant (emmagrant01). Any additional/future chapters will be written by Agnesanutter. 
> 
> EMMA'S NOTES (chapters 1-4):  
> 1\. Written for Benedictcumberbatchruinedme, who bid on a fic from me for the Sherlock Committee Fic Auction for DashCon 2014. This story is based on her prompt.  
> 2\. Please be warned that this story takes a fairly sympathetic view of the character of Mary Morstan. If that doesn’t work for you, I’d prefer you just not read rather than leave negative comments. Thanks in advance for your understanding.  
> 3\. This story plays fast and loose with the science regarding memory loss resulting from traumatic brain injury (TBI). No offense is intended. If I get something wrong and you can’t overlook it for the sake of the plot, I’d prefer you email me privately to let me know (emmagrant01 at gmail).  
> 4\. Huge thanks to Drinkingcocoa for her thoughtful comments and hand-holding while I've struggled with this fic over the last few months!

**Chapter 1**

A raindrop curled down the smoked pane of glass, dodging left, right, and then right again, gathering volume as it collided with nearby drops. It hurtled toward the window sill and finally slipped away, out of John's sight. He turned to face Ella.

"Sorry. What was the question?"

"Are you sleeping any better?"

"No." Which was just as well, considering the nightmares that plagued what little sleep he managed. 

"I can give you something for it, if you like."

He pursed his lips. "I'll think about it." 

She uncrossed her legs, crossed them again the opposite direction. "It's only been a few months. It's perfectly normal to—"

"It's been seven months. You're supposed to be past the worst of it after four."

"You grieve on your own timeline. There are no rules. Loss of a loved one is an immensely difficult—"

"He wasn't my—" John began, and then winced. "Shit. I said I'd stop doing that."

She nodded, acknowledging his self-correction. "You don't have to compare your grief with anyone else's. These are your feelings, and they're right for you."

John snorted and rubbed at his eyes. "They aren't right, though. That's the problem. I just want to get on with my life and not feel like _this_ all the time." 

"Like what?"

He took a deep breath and released it. "Like I'm… waiting." Treading water in a vast sea, knowing it was just a matter of time until he'd drown. 

"For what?"

John almost smiled. "For the day that I'll look up and he'll be standing there, with a shit-eating grin on his face." Sometimes he let himself believe it for a little while, just for a reprieve from reality. 

She made a note on her pad. "Are you writing?"

"No."

"I'd like you to write before we meet again."

"I really don't want to blog about this." God, no.

"No, this is just private. You don't have to show it to anyone. It's just for you. I'd like you to set a timer and write for fifteen minutes each night, about whatever is in your mind. You don't even have to look at it again, but I'd advise you to save it. You may want to look back on it later. Will you try that?"

John chewed on his lip for a long moment. "Yes. Fine, I'll… try."

"Good." Ella scribbled something on her notepad, and John turned to look out the window once again. The rain had picked up, sheeting down now, and the pavement below was a sea of bobbing black umbrellas. 

He'd forgotten his. Of course. John closed his eyes and sighed. 

***

He was underwater.

No, that wasn't… right. Dark swirls of color, or of sensation, something, not much light, distorted voices, some familiar. _Oh, John_ and _We just don't know what the long-term prognosis will be_ and _London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down_. Flashes of pain that subsided just as quickly, thick like fog, like drowning.

 _I'm sorry_. Sherlock's voice: real enough to push his consciousness up, up nearly to the top. Opening his eyes took great effort, and it was like looking up through six meters of water, everything distorted, voices rising around him, colors and movement — easier to sink back down again, to lie on the bottom and close his eyes. 

Rhythmic sounds, mechanical, loud, persistent, _painful_. Sometimes a touch, gentle, a hand reaching down through the dark water, impossibly long arms, trying to reach, to pull him up again. It was too hard, too much. Easier to lie here and rest, sleep, wait.

_Oh God, John._

He lost track of time. Days, weeks, maybe? Minutes? There was no time here anyway, no way to measure, no reason to care. Mind too foggy to process, to work it out. 

_Nothing yet? No change?_

Sherlock's voice again — it had to be — more clear now. He tried to move, to breathe, but everything was thick and dark. Lungs not working, can't inhale this stuff, too hard. Don't bother. Just rest. Voices raised again, pressure of hands on his, and it was too much. Fall back down again and rest on the soft, warm sand. Don't breathe. Don't think. Just wait.

Sherlock was dead. Maybe John was dead too.

***

His mind was clearer now, had been growing more so for a while. Thinking was easier and his thoughts were coming more quickly, less murky, less tangled. He felt an intense urge to breathe, but couldn't. Something was wrong — airway blocked? 

He opened his eyes, blinked against the shocking light of day, and focused on the paned ceiling above him. Hospital. He blinked again. No memory of coming here. No pain. He flexed his fingers, then his toes. 

"Oh my God, get a doctor, quick!" 

A face hovered into his frame of vision: a nurse, probably, eyes full of concern. He tried to move his lips to respond, but something was in the way. Intubated, _God_. He closed his eyes again. 

"John, can you hear me? Stay with me, love; the doctor's coming." Someone — the nurse — squeezed his hand, brushed fingertips across his forehead. 

There was a commotion in the room then, people crowding around and looking down at him, faces contorted. There was discussion he couldn't follow, couldn't process, and it was all too loud. He groaned around the tube and squeezed his eyes shut.

The hand holding his squeezed. "Shhh, it's all right. It's going to be fine."

Good nurse, very comforting. He liked her voice. He squeezed her hand in return.

Lots of noise now, many people surrounding the bed, and she let go of his hand, stepped away. 

***

He swallowed and winced at the rawness of his throat, but was grateful to be breathing on his own again. The nurse handed him a cup of ice chips, and he nodded his thanks.

"It's good to have you back in the world again." She smiled at him and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

He smiled at her, though he was vaguely discomfited by the intimacy of the gesture. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, and finally managed a hoarse sort of squeak. "What happened to me?"

"The doctor said you probably wouldn't remember. You fell, hit your head."

"Concussion?" 

"Yes. A bad one. We were quite worried about you."

He nodded, frowned. He had no memory of this, no idea what he'd been doing that was so risky. How ironic that he'd sustain an injury like this now, after all his days running around with Sherlock. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Three weeks." She swallowed and reached for his hand again. He let her do it, though it was more than a bit strange. She was lovely, if not his usual type: heart-shaped face, short blonde hair, large green eyes. Jesus, how pathetic was it that he was thinking of chatting up the nurse?

He drew his hand away under the pretense of adjusting his position on the bed, and then folded his hands together in his lap. "Has my sister has been informed that I'm here?"

The nurse blinked at him, clearly surprised. "Yes, of course. She's been by to visit several times."

"Ah, right." John nodded and gave her a bland smile. "And I suppose the clinic knows? The clinic where I work, I mean."

"It's fine, love. I've taken care of it."

"I didn't realize that was part of the service." He smiled, but she didn't laugh at the joke. 

"Service?"

"I've never heard of anyone being assigned a personal nurse under these conditions." He grinned at her. "I'm not complaining, mind. I'm counting myself lucky even to have a private room."

She stared back at him with an expression of shock. "Oh my God. You…" She sat back, away from him, suddenly pale. 

He felt an odd prickling at the base of his skull. "What is it? What's wrong?"

They stared at each other for a moment, and then the doctor entered the room again. 

"John Watson, pleasure to meet you at last. How are you feeling?" Her gaze was still fixed on his chart. "Vital signs appear normal, and…" She looked up. "If I'm interrupting—"

"He doesn't remember me," the nurse said, her face now nearly lined with concern. "He has no idea who I am."

The doctor — her badge displayed the name PATEL in a large font — narrowed her gaze at John. "You don't know this woman?"

John glanced between the two of them, and something cold settled in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head and clenched his hands in the thin blankets covering his legs, tried to ground himself in the sensation of rough woven fabric. His thoughts began to spin out of control. Something was very, very wrong here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. 

No, wait, _stop_. What would he do under these circumstances, if he were the doctor? He checked items off of a mental list, things he knew: his name, his address, his mobile number, his birthday, the current prime minister — but not the woman sitting beside his bed. Who was apparently not a nurse; now that he looked at her, really looked, he could see that she wasn't dressed in scrubs, but in ordinary clothing, soft pastels, no security badge.

Doctor Patel scribbled something on his chart. "John… what year is it?"

The answer popped into his head immediately and he sighed with relief. "Two thousand twelve."

The woman gasped and put a hand over her mouth. John looked up at Doctor Patel again, whose face was now a careful mask of stone. It was a look he knew well. She pursed her lips and took a step closer to him, and seemed to take a steadying breath before speaking again.

"It's 2016, John."

John could only gape at her for a long, bewildering moment. He turned to look at the woman seated next to him, who stared at him as if he'd sprouted another head. He tried to laugh, but it came out a bit strangled. "No, that's not… You're having me on. It can't…" He swallowed and stared down at his hands again. They were swollen from the IVs still in place, but they didn't look all that different otherwise. _Four years?_ "But she said I was only out for a few weeks. It can't have been four years."

"Retrograde amnesia isn't unusual with this kind of injury," Doctor Patel said, her voice soft now. 

"Four years, though? No, I… I know _that_ is unusual." His left hand began shaking and he clenched the blanket even more tightly.

"It's likely that your memory will return in time. Your physical injuries have almost completely healed, though you may continue to experience some fogginess, fatigue, sensitivity to light and sound—"

"I know the symptoms," John spat, and closed his eyes. "I'm a bloody doctor, and I — Oh my God." He turned to look at the woman sitting next to him. Her eyes were wide with dark circles underneath, as if she hadn't been sleeping well. As if she'd spent a lot of time here, worrying over him. "Who are you? Why am I meant to know you?"

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and she swallowed, as if steeling herself before looking up at him again. "I'm your wife."

"My…" He stared at her in shock. Wife. " _Wife_?"

"I'm Mary." She tried to smile, but didn't quite manage it. Her lower lip trembled.

He was married. To this woman, this complete stranger. He had no idea how he'd met her or how long they'd been married or… anything. He looked at her, stared hard, tried to remember, but couldn't. Worse, he felt nothing. Shouldn't he feel something when he looked at her? Shouldn't he recognize her on some level?

"How…" His voice caught and he paused to reach for the cup of ice chips again, grateful for an excuse to look away, to collect himself. _Wife_ , Christ. "How long have we been married?"

"It was two years this past summer." 

"And before that?"

"We were together a year before we got married." 

"So I've known you for more than three years." He shook a mouthful of ice chips from the cup and looked at her again. She looked distraught, which was understandable. Terrified, even. 

"Yes," she replied, and her voice was little more than a whisper. She looked down at her hands.

Oh, God — he was _married_. This person, this stranger sitting next to him, was his partner. "I don't," he began, and then paused. He turned to Doctor Patel. "I don't know what happens next."

Doctor Patel's expression was deeply sympathetic. "You'll have a consultation with a physical therapist and a psychiatrist, and we'll make a plan from there. If all goes well, you could be released in a few days."

"Released." He swallowed, hard, and turned to look at… his wife. Her name had flown from his mind as quickly as it had landed. He felt his cheeks heat. "I'm sorry, I… can't remember…" 

"Mary." She pressed her lips together.

"Mary." 

"It's highly likely that your short-term memory will be affected for a while as well." Doctor Patel's voice was gentle and urgent, simultaneously. "It's completely normal."

"Nothing about this is normal," Mary said, and John huffed out a sound of agreement.

"So I'll go home. With Mary." With a total stranger. He didn't even know where home was. Christ.

Doctor Patel made another note on his chart. "I'll check in on you in a bit." She smiled at John and turned away, leaving the two of them staring blankly after her.

John took a deep breath. "I've no idea what to say."

"Me either."

"I'm sorry," they both said, and John couldn't help but smile.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Mary said. "I can't imagine what it must feel like, not to remember…" She trailed off and a strange look spread over her face, as if the magnitude of what he didn't remember had just hit her. 

He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling. Four years, Jesus. "What the hell did I do to get myself in this state? What did I fall off of?"

"A building."

An image of Sherlock falling filled his mind, and he pushed it away out of habit, tensed himself for the desperate empty pain that usually followed. He held his breath, but it didn't come: he'd thought of Sherlock and it hadn't hurt. Had enough time finally passed? 

"Not a big one, mind. A garden shed, really. In the rain." She raised her eyebrow in an expression of long-suffering amusement.

John frowned. "Why the hell was I climbing around on a roof in the rain?"

As if on cue, a familiar voice reverberated through the room. "Following me, as per usual."

John froze, closed his eyes. That wasn't… No.

He forced himself to open them, to look across the room. The blood drained from his face.

Standing in the doorway, wearing his trademark coat and a cheeky grin, was Sherlock Holmes. 

***


	2. Two

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again.

Sherlock. That was _Sherlock_ , not an apparition. Sherlock, who was very clearly not dead. For a brief moment, John wondered if he’d been transported into some alternate universe. 

Sherlock crossed the room and stopped abruptly when he reached the foot of the bed, almost as if he’d just stopped himself from leaping onto it. He stared down at John with eyes that were just as tired as Mary’s, and he clenched one hand into a fist. “Mary texted me, but I had my phone muted — Mycroft’s been calling me hourly, has something he wants me to do. I would have been here sooner.” 

And there— there was the voice John had thought he would never hear again, the voice that haunted his dreams, whose last — _not last_ — words were burned into John’s brain. He’d heard them over and over again while standing over Sherlock’s grave, replaying it all in his mind and shredding himself for what he could’ve done, should’ve seen. And now there he was, standing just a few feet away, real. _Alive_.

John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His head swam and he leaned back into the pillows. He felt Mary take his hand, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock’s face, from his eyes, his mouth, the shock of hair that framed his features against the fluorescent backlight of the hospital room. 

“Oh God, John,” Mary said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he looked almost panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“He thinks it’s 2012. He doesn’t remember anything.”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted back to John again and his expression morphed into one of utter shock. He pressed his lips together, swallowed. 

“You’re dead,” John managed at last, unable to keep a touch of accusation from his tone.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a full second. When he opened them again, he reached for John’s free hand and entwined their fingers, and kept his focus firmly on the IV port bruising the back of John’s hand. “Not dead. Never was.”

“I don’t…” John paused, shook his head, and found he couldn’t make another sound without risking losing his self-control. 

Sherlock frowned and drew the pad of his thumb across the back of John’s hand. The circles under his eyes competed with Mary’s and the aura of worry that surrounded him was nearly visible. “I know. I’m sorry.”

John stared up at him, amazed. The Sherlock he remembered was cocky, arrogant, a human machine, and not prone to displays of compassion or emotion or — he looked down at their joined hands — overt physical displays of affection. It was almost too much to process. John looked up to see Sherlock’s eyes focused on his, soft and blue. 

“Will his memory return?”

“They don’t know for certain,” Mary replied, and Sherlock turned to look at her again. Something passed between them, something John couldn’t identify, and then Mary exhaled, smoothly, and looked away. 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his thigh pressed tightly against John’s through the blankets. His expression was unreadable, blank, and then there was a flicker of something underneath, something almost like hope. “Well, then, here we go again. Perhaps you won’t try to break my nose this time.” 

John tried to will his brain to process this as true, as real, as fact. Emotion welled up in his throat, and God, he hoped he wouldn’t do something as ridiculous as cry. He was just off-balance enough at the moment to lose control, though, so he focused on the feeling of two sets of fingers interlaced with his own. He squeezed both hands, and Sherlock and Mary squeezed back. 

What the hell had happened in the last four years?

“This is…” he began, and then stopped, cleared his throat. “From my perspective, you’ve been dead for about seven months. And I’ve spent so much of that time… God…” He looked up again, aware that his eyes were wet, and he tugged his hands free, brought them up to his face. 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

“But you’re not dead. You’re here, and… how long have I known about this?”

“Two years, six months, and… four days. Though you’re still pissed off at me every now and then.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a genuine, lip-biting smile, and John’s heart leapt into his throat. Sherlock’s gaze shifted to a spot behind John’s left shoulder and then back again. His eyes were clear and bright, and John found he couldn’t look away. 

“Did I really break your nose?”

“Bloodied it a bit. Among other things.”

“I was angry?”

Sherlock’s expression melted into something like wry amusement. “Livid.”

John shook his head: it was hard to believe he would have felt so differently than he did now. “I’m sorry.”

“I deserved it. I let you think I was dead for two years, and then sprung it on you in public.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like… yeah. It really is you.” 

“You forgave me. Eventually.” 

“I should hope so. And we’ve been… friends ever since?”

“More than just friends, I should hope,” Sherlock said, and he smiled again. 

John blinked at him, uncertain what to make of that comment.

“Afternoon,” they heard, and turned to look at the nurse who’d just walked in. “The physical therapist will be here in a few minutes to perform an assessment for Mr Watson.”

“It’s _Doctor_ Watson, actually.” Sherlock stood and towered almost ominously over the nurse.

She frowned up at him, unimpressed. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“Let her do her job, Sherlock,” Mary said with a fond sort of scolding tone. “John will come home much faster that way.”

Sherlock gave Mary a skeptical look and turned back to John. “I should return Mycroft’s calls before he sends out some men in suits to hunt me down. I hope you’ll keep me informed?” John reached out for his hand, not quite ready to see him leave. Sherlock took it and squeezed once before releasing it and turning to Mary. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

“I will.”

John stared after his retreating form, hands clenched at his sides, and didn’t breathe until the sound of Sherlock’s footfalls could no longer be heard.

“You okay?” Mary squeezed his arm gently.

He let his head fall back against the pillow again, closed his eyes. “Oh my God.”

“I suppose that was quite a shock.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

“I doubt you can,” John said, and then flinched. Was that a rude thing to say to one’s wife? Or to his wife, at any rate? He had no idea. “Or perhaps you can imagine. I don’t mean to assume.” He opened his eyes again and turned to look at her. “I’m sorry. This is just… I’m sure this is difficult for you as well.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I’m just glad you’re back in the world again. The rest will work itself out.” 

The nurse cleared her throat and they both turned to look at her. “You’re welcome to stay during the assessment, Mrs Watson.”

Mary stood and leaned over him, and dropped a small, dry kiss on his forehead. “I’ve got some errands to run, actually. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Right. Thanks.” He tried to smile, but it felt forced. She brushed the hair back from his forehead with her fingertips and looked for a moment as if she might say something more. She didn’t, though; she stepped back and glanced at something over his left shoulder, and then turned away. He waited until she’d left the room before turning to see what was there that had drawn both her and Sherlock’s attention.

It was a small flat-panel screen showing the continuous output from the sensors attached to his chest: respiration, oxygen saturation, and heart rate. He had a feeling the machine had lit up like Christmas when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock. _God_. 

The nurse flipped through several pages on her clipboard and made a few notes, then cast an impatient glance toward the doorway. 

John settled back against the mattress again, his mind still spinning. So apparently his wife — _wife!_ — didn’t mind him chasing after Sherlock on cases. She might after this incident, though; he wouldn’t blame her for that. But God, the very idea that Sherlock was alive and well and they were apparently still best mates and solved cases together — his pulse jumped at the thought. He turned his head to look at the monitor. Christmas again.

John pressed one hand over his mouth and grinned into it, almost laughed. It was bizarre, disorienting, and freakishly unbelievable that this was what his life had become. If it turned out to be an alternate universe, he hoped he got to stay.

***

“Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

John stirred and opened his eyes to see a nurse — an actual nurse this time — standing over him. “Evening.” 

“I’ve got an order to unhook you from some of this, if you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all.” He relaxed into the mattress and watched as she disconnected IV tubes and rolled the stand back out of view. “Does that mean I can get up and walk around?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Once I take the catheter out.”

Ten minutes later he was alone again, and significantly more comfortable. He flipped through a newspaper the nurse had left for him, trying to work out exactly what he’d missed in the last four years. Oddly enough, the content of the articles wasn’t all that different. Same countries at war, same politicians bollixing things up. 

“Hey,” he heard, and looked up to see Mary peeking through the doorway. She had a large bag slung over her shoulder; it threatened to slide off at the angle she was leaning in. Her expression was fairly anxious.

“Hi.” He set the paper aside and pushed himself to sitting. “Come in.” 

She adjusted the bag and stepped fully into view. There was a small bundle of pink sitting at her hip, and it was nearly a full second before John realized the bundle was a baby.

A _baby_. John’s breath caught in his throat.

He stared open-mouthed as she crossed the room and dropped the bag onto a chair, then stopped beside the bed. The baby — a toddler, really — smiled brightly at him and held out her arms. 

“Da!” 

This — God, _this_ — was something he hadn’t expected at all. He watched silently, heart in his throat as Mary pulled the fluffy pink coat off, revealing chubby arms. 

“This is Anna,” Mary said softly, watching his face. “Your daughter.” Anna’s sparse, pixie-like hair was light blonde and her eyes were dark blue, and he could see himself in the shape of her face. 

“Da, da, da,” she said, and crawled into his lap and wrapped her little arms around his neck. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed.

He had a daughter. _Oh, God._ He wrapped his arms around her tiny body and pulled her close. She planted a slobbery kiss against his neck and laughed, and he squeezed his eyes even more tightly closed. She smelled faintly of baby powder.

He had a family, and he didn’t remember any of it. Somehow in the last four years, Sherlock had survived and returned and John had met this woman and married her, and they had a child, and just, _how?_ It was as if he’d jumped forward in time and missed the most important years of his life.

Anna wriggled in his arms and he released her, let her perch on his lap. She reached up and grabbed his nose. “Da nose. Da nose!”

On impulse, he tapped her little button nose with the tip of his finger. “Anna’s nose.”

Mary gasped and took a step forward. “You remember?”

John shook his head and looked up at her. “I… no, I don’t.”

“Because that’s something you always do. It’s her favorite game.” 

Anna went after his ear then, babbling, “Da ear, Da ear.”

“My father used to do that.” John swallowed, pressed his lips together. “How old is she?”

Mary’s smile faded, and John felt another stab of grief. “Fourteen months, last week.”

“Walking?”

“Yes.” Mary smoothed down an errant lock of fine fair at the back of Anna’s head. “She took her first steps while I was at work, of course. I came home and you had her walk to meet me at the door.”

“Da ‘an,” Anna chirped, tugging on John’s fingers.

“How can I not remember this?” John felt emotion rising in his chest; he didn’t bother forcing it back down. “What if I never remember?” 

Mary put a hand on his arm, but he couldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze focused on Anna, who was staring at him now with wide eyes. “We’ve photos and video of nearly every moment of her life, thanks to your obsession with recording it all.” 

John wiped at his eyes. “What about from before that?”

Mary smirked. “Well, we didn’t video the conception, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He laughed and felt himself flush, but couldn’t bring himself to look at her. This was someone with whom he’d been physically and emotionally intimate for years, but she was a complete stranger to him at the moment. He knew nothing about her, nothing at all, and worse, he felt nothing. What if he never remembered falling in love with her? Would he find his way back there again?

Anna began singing a tune that slightly resembled ‘Eensy Weensy Spider,’ and John watched her, enraptured. 

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and Mary leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of Anna’s head. Oh God, he had a _family_. 

Anna finished her song and clapped for herself, beaming at both of them, and then started singing it again. John grinned. “Is she always this adorable?”

“She is.” John looked up to see Sherlock leaning in the doorway, and he felt his heart rate increase at the sight of him. Good job he’d been disconnected from the monitor.

“Yes, well — you never have to deal with her at two in the morning,” Mary said.

“That’s not entirely true.” Sherlock crossed to the bed and smiled down at Anna. “There was that one time.”

“Suh!” Anna turned towards Sherlock and held out her arms. To John’s utter astonishment, Sherlock scooped her up and tossed her into the air. Anna giggled with delight and grabbed Sherlock’s nose. “Suh nose.”

Sherlock touched the tip of her nose and said, “Anna’s nose,” and she squealed. John felt as if he might melt into the floor then and there. 

Doctor Patel swanned into the room then, and paused to smile at Anna before flipping through the pages on John’s chart. “Good evening. You’re looking well, Doctor Watson.”

“Suh mouf,” Anna said, and Sherlock tugged her tiny hand away from his lips as he turned to Mary. “Want me to take her for a bit?”

“That’d be lovely, thanks,” Mary said. “The nurse told me on the way in that the play area on the fourth level is open tonight.”

“We’ll be there,” Sherlock said. He picked up Mary’s large bag as he walked out, talking quietly to Anna all the while.

John blinked after him, stunned. “Is that a good idea?”

Mary shrugged. “It’s a great play area. She’s been in it before.”

“No, I mean… Sherlock. With our baby. Does he know how to…?” He looked up at her, uncertain how to phrase the question. He wouldn’t have trusted Sherlock with a bloody goldfish before.

She gave him a quizzical look. “He’s our usual sitter, John. When he’s not on a case, anyway.”

“Seriously?” An image of Sherlock changing a nappy surrounded by a cloud of baby powder flooded his mind, and he couldn’t help a choked laugh.

“He adores her. She has him wrapped around her finger.” Mary smiled and shook her head. “If she winds up spoilt rotten, it’ll be all his fault.”

“Any changes in your memory since this morning?” Doctor Patel looked up from the chart.

John wrenched his attention away from thoughts of Sherlock playing pat-a-cake and shook his head. “Nothing. It should all come back eventually, shouldn’t it?” He’d treated patients with head injuries before, but not in recent years— and never anything quite like this.

“It usually does, though it’s difficult to know how long it will take. It could be anywhere from a few days to a few years. Some memories may never come back fully.” Doctor Patel’s expression was guarded; it was yet another look John knew well. 

“Right.” John nodded and looked down at his hands. 

“Mrs Watson, do you have any concerns about his short-term memory?”

“I haven’t noticed anything unusual,” Mary replied. 

“That’s a good sign,” Doctor Patel said, and made a note on the chart. “I’m scheduling a CT scan in the morning. Depending on the results of that, you might be ready for release within a day or two.”

“That would be fantastic!” Mary took his hand and squeezed it, her expression one of carefully guarded hope.

John forced a smile and looked away. As disorienting as this day had been, he had a feeling that going home — wherever home happened to be — might be even more so. But what else could he do?

***


	3. Three

Mary handed over Anna and dug into her purse for the keys. 

“Da, Da, Da,” Anna said, flailing her pink fluffy arms. She pushed the hood off her head, and John tugged it back up again.

“Here we are.” Mary flourished a set of keys and turned to open the door. 

John followed her up a set of unfamiliar stairs and through the door of what was apparently their flat. He stopped just inside and looked around.

“Anything?” Mary asked.

John shook his head. Nothing. He remembered nothing of this. He’d held a fleeting hope that seeing the place that had been his home for several years would trigger something, but so far, it hadn’t.

Mary sighed. “I’ll give you a tour, then.” She pulled off her coat and moved to hang it on a stand by the door. “You can put Anna down, if you like.”

“Oh, right.” He set Anna down and unzipped her coat, and she twisted out of it and toddled over to a box of toys next to the sofa. He hung her tiny coat and then his own, and turned again to look around.

It was a decent flat, laid out well for a small family. The kitchen and living areas were open and comfortably furnished, and the room had a great deal of natural light. There was a small table with four chairs, a neutral-colored sofa and two armchairs, and a modest flat-screen television sitting atop a sideboard. A large colorful rug marked the center of the room, where Anna now settled with a large stuffed Paddington bear, chattering to herself.

“The bathroom’s here,” Mary said, pushing open a door. “It connects to our bedroom through another door, so you have to be careful to lock both if you want privacy from the nosy little miss. The bedroom is this one.” 

He followed her through another doorway into a small bedroom. There was a crib with one side missing, wedged between the bed and the wall, and the blankets were askew.

Mary smiled. “Bit of a mess, sorry. And the other room is through here.” 

He followed her to another small bedroom. A desk was pushed against one wall, surrounded by several sets of bookshelves on which he recognized many titles that belonged to him. At the far end of the room was a single window, and on the wall opposite the desk was a daybed, neatly made.

“That’s the grand tour,” Mary said, leaning against the door frame. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“It’s cozy.” John crossed to the shelves and ran one finger along the spines of the books. Some were books he’d had for ages, some were completely unfamiliar, and others he recognized as books he’d bought more recently: crime and mystery titles Sherlock had so often made caustic remarks about. He smiled at the memory. “Last I remember I was in a bedsit and trying to put my life back together. This is a considerable improvement on that.”

He turned back to see that her expression was sad, and he wondered what he would usually do when she looked like that. Did he embrace her, kiss her, tell her everything would be all right? Or did he stay back, let her sort it out on her own? 

“I wish I could have known you then. That I could’ve been there for you when Sherlock jumped. I didn’t meet you until more than a year later, and you were still grieving him even then. It was so hard for you.”

John looked away again. There were so many things he didn’t know about what had happened and how they’d got to this point. “So how did he—”

There was a crashing sound from the living room and a small cry, and Mary said, “Whoops!” and dashed off. 

Should he follow? He started toward the door, but a sound and a flash of light from the desk caught his attention. He crossed to see a small, sleek phone lying on the shelf by a framed photo of himself, Mary, and Anna. The screen displayed a text message:

_Interesting case, could use your input. If you’re up for it. -SH_

John felt a pulse of adrenaline. He picked up the phone, unplugged it from the charging cable, and stared at the display until it went dark again. 

_If you’re up for it._

There was nothing he would rather do this moment than flee this awkward situation and run about London with Sherlock. He’d dreamed about it, had awakened in a sweat on so many nights, the covers kicked off and his heart racing, only to face the crushing reality that Sherlock was dead. 

But now, by some miracle, he wasn’t. He was alive and real, and it was everything John had hoped for these last seven months. He pushed a button on the phone and swiped his thumb across it. 

It asked for a passcode. 

He frowned. It hadn’t been seven months — not really. And he had other responsibilities now: a wife and a child — though he apparently still spent enough time running about after Sherlock that he’d got himself seriously injured. There were so many questions John had for him, things he’d spent the last few days obsessing over, desperate to know, but he hadn’t had a moment alone with Sherlock to ask.

“Everything all right?” 

He looked up to see Mary watching him from the doorway. “Yeah, just… I’ve no idea what the passcode is.”

“Two six six two.”

He blinked at her, surprised. But of course his wife would know his passcode, wouldn’t she? Hell, Sherlock had always known his passcodes — though come to think of it, John had never actually told him any of them. He tapped in the code and the screen flared to life. The wallpaper was a photo of a smiling Anna. “Thanks. I’m going to have to remember that, somehow.”

“It’s Anna,” she said, and raised her eyebrows. “A - N - N - A.”

“What, seriously? That’s a ridiculously easy passcode, isn’t it?”

She snorted. “I’ve been saying that for a year now, but you never seemed troubled about it.”

“Is she all right, then?”

“Yes, just got frustrated when she couldn’t pull something off a shelf. We’d been meaning to spend a weekend toddler-proofing after she started walking, but then you got hurt and I haven’t had a chance to get around to it.”

The text message alert sounded again, and John looked down at the screen.

_Not tonight, though. Tomorrow morning, since you’re still skiving off work. - SH_

“Sherlock?”

John nodded. “I still can’t quite believe it. It’s… You have to understand, I was just at the therapist the other day, talking about how much I—” He broke off and swallowed. “I’m sorry. Until I get my memories back, this is going to be difficult for me. I don’t…”

“I know.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. “You need time.”

“Muh muh muh.” A small face appeared from behind Mary’s leg and looked up at her. She held up her tiny arms and Mary reached down to pick her up. Anna yawned and snuggled her head under Mary’s chin.

“I should feed her and get her ready for bed.” 

“Yes, of course. Should I… help?”

“If you like.” Mary smiled and carried Anna toward the kitchen. 

John followed and watched as she settled Anna in a highchair. He sat at the table next to her and smiled as she waved her arms. 

“Hi, Anna.”

“Da!” She chewed on her fingers and looked back to the kitchen, to where Mary was rummaging in a cabinet. “Muh muh, om om om.” 

“There’s a bib on the table,” Mary called from across the room.

“Oh. Right.” John stood and fastened it around Anna’s neck while she squirmed and smiled up at him, and she promptly pulled it off again. He fastened it again, pressing the velcro strips together harder this time, and she tugged, frowning.

Surely he didn’t usually feel this awkward around her? He’d never spent much time with small children; he’d only ever interacted with them occasionally through his work, but he wasn’t a pediatrician, so even that was rare.

Mary returned with a packet of baby food and a spoon, and set a covered cup in front of Anna, who promptly forgot her struggle with the bib and reached for it. She took several long drinks, and then dropped the cup to the floor when Mary held out the spoon with a bit of puree on it.

“She likes to feed herself these days. She mostly gets it all in. Oh, very good, you!” 

Anna had managed to keep the spoon mostly level on the way to her mouth, to Mary’s obvious delight. Anna held out the spoon again and Mary steadied it with one hand and squeezed more puree from the packet into it.

“Is she…” John paused, uncertain how to ask the question. “She seems perfectly healthy and developing well.”

“You’re constantly obsessing over whether she’s hitting her developmental milestones, but she’s doing just fine.” 

“Oh God, am I one of those parents?” 

“It’s adorable, really. Your universe revolves around Anna. She’s a lucky little girl.”

John swallowed down a wave of guilt. Then why didn’t he feel that way now? When he looked at her, he felt nothing more than a generic sort of fondness one felt for small children. Shouldn’t he have loved her at first sight? His gaze flicked back to Mary’s face, to the guarded expression she always seemed to wear. He forced a smile and focused on Anna again.

“So what happens tomorrow?”

Mary refilled Anna’s spoon. “I’m scheduled for a shift at nine, but I could call in if you need me here.”

John opened his mouth and closed it again. “No, it’s… I think I’d like some time on my own.”

“I thought you might.” She wiped off Anna, who’d just spilt puree down her front. “We usually organize our shifts so that someone is always here with Anna, but I’ve been taking her to a minder since you’ve been in hospital. If you’re not comfortable—”

“I’m not.” He winced: he hadn’t meant to say it quite so quickly. “I will be, but right now—”

“It’s fine, John.” Mary turned to look at him, and he realized she was relieved as well. 

John nodded and exhaled, and watched Mary feed Anna the rest of the puree.

“There, all done. Say night-night, Anna darling.”

Anna rubbed at her eyes with her tiny fists and yawned.

“Good night, Anna,” John said, and Mary plucked her up from the chair and carried her away.

He sat on the sofa and listened to the sounds of a story being read and a soft lullaby sung, and finally crossed to stand awkwardly in the bedroom doorway. Mary lay on her side with Anna snuggled up against her chest, eyes closed and mouth slack around Mary’s nipple. 

“She just fell asleep,” Mary whispered, and John nodded, pressing a finger to his own lips. He watched as Mary rolled away and tugged her shirt back down, and then carefully rolled off the bed. Mary switched off the light and nodded her head in the direction of the living room, and John followed. “We don’t have much in the way of food. I haven’t been able to do the shopping lately. I hope a sandwich will do?”

”Yes, of course.” He frowned. “I haven’t become a vegetarian in the last couple of years, have I?”

Mary laughed and shook her head. “No, you haven’t.”

After they’d eaten, they settled on the sofa in an awkward silence. 

“So—” they both said at once.

“Go on,” Mary said, and turned sideways on the sofa to face him. 

“Maybe it would be best to start at the beginning.” John turned to lean against the arm of the sofa. “How did we meet?”

Mary pulled her knees into her chest and smiled. “We met just a few months after — well, after where your memory ends. I was offered a position in the clinic where you work.”

“Oh, what do you do there?” 

“I’m a nurse.” Her smile was tight, as if the reality of John not even knowing this much about her was sinking in. “You flirted with me right from the start, but I said no the first few times you asked me out. I didn’t think an office romance was a good idea.”

John smiled. “Clearly you changed your mind.”

Her lips twisted slightly. “You were persistent, and I finally thought, what the hell? And it was… well, we didn’t waste much time after that.”

He couldn’t help grinning at that. “I see.”

She laughed, and the sound was clear and genuine. “It was an instant connection. I think we both knew it was something special very soon.” 

“When did we get married?”

“A bit more than a year ago now. Want to see the photos?” 

“I would,” John said, and she hopped up, crossed to a bookshelf, and returned with a large cream-colored photo album. She handed it to him and settled on the sofa beside him, a bit closer this time. He ran his fingers over the cover. “John and Mary, 18th of May, 2014.” He paused and looked up at her, crunching the numbers in his head.

She bit her lip. “Anna was already on the way, but just barely.”

John smiled and looked down at the cover again. He opened the album and flipped slowly through the pages: Photos of himself looking relaxed and happy, Mary in a beautiful dress, bridesmaids in purple gowns, and… His heart leapt into his throat: Sherlock, standing next to him in most of the photos, nearly expressionless.

“So Sherlock was back by then?” 

“Yes. It’s a funny story, actually. He decided to announce his return at the very moment you proposed to me.”

“Seriously?”

“The words were about to come out of your mouth, and suddenly there he was, disguised as a waiter and interrupting us. ‘Not dead!’” 

John blinked. “And I thought that was funny?”

“Ah, no.” Mary grimaced slightly. “You were livid, actually. It took ages for you to forgive him for that, and for… well, all of it. But the two of you worked it out eventually, and you picked up where you left off, more or less.” 

“And then you and I got married.” John swallowed, suddenly uneasy. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it, but it was all so mixed up with the amnesia and the confusing ways his brain was processing information. “I imagine Sherlock was a treat through all of that.”

“No, he helped plan the wedding. He was brilliant.”

John turned to gape at her. “He… what?”

“He obsessed over it, handled every detail. Usually that’s the bride’s job.” She bit her lip to stop herself from grinning, and there it was again, the feeling that something big was missing from this story. “We had to make him go on cases every now and then just to take a break from it.”

John forced himself to look back down at the album again. That didn’t sound at all like the Sherlock he remembered, the man who was obsessed with his work, and who’d done everything he could to drive away John’s girlfriends when they’d proved to be a distraction. He leafed slowly through the remaining pages, and they were both silent. He closed the album at last and handed it back to Mary. “Thanks.”

“Trigger any memories?”

“No.” He tried for a smile, but it probably looked pained. 

Mary looked crestfallen for a split second, but she nodded and returned the book to its shelf. She stood next to the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest. “I think I’ll turn in. I have to get up early if I’m to get Anna to the child minder’s before work.”

John looked up at her. “Right.”

“If you don’t… I mean, I understand if you want a bit of space still. You’re welcome to sleep with me and Anna, of course, but if you’d rather, there are clean sheets on the day bed in the other room. You’ve got pyjamas and a change of clothes in the drawer of the bedside table.”

John exhaled, relieved. “Yes, that’s… yes. Thank you. I appreciate that.” He stood and faced her, uncertain what to do or say next. Should he hug her? Kiss her? He had no idea.

She stared at him for a long second before stepping forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. She hesitated there for a moment more, as if waiting for him to reciprocate, and then took a step backward. “Good night, then. If you’re not up when we leave in the morning, I’ll text you later, see how you’re doing.”

John nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes, thanks. Good night.” She squeezed his arm and walked past him, down the corridor to the bedroom. She turned back once and gave him a small smile before disappearing through the doorway. 

He sat on the sofa again and listened to the sounds of the tap running in the bathroom, the opening of drawers, and finally silence. He swallowed down a sudden impulse to grab his coat and run, to find his way to Baker Street and — was that even where Sherlock lived anymore? He closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his face. No, this was his life now, and he had to find his way back to it. He was happily married with a baby daughter, and Sherlock was alive and still his best friend, and Sherlock and his wife even seemed to _like_ each other. He’d never have guessed any of this was ahead of him a mere month ago. 

He took a deep breath and stood. He’d get a good night’s sleep and maybe he’d remember something in the morning. The pyjamas were just where Mary had said they’d be, along with several days’ worth of neatly folded clothes. He smiled a bit at that: she knew him well enough to anticipate that he’d need space for a while. 

He stripped off his clothes and put on the pyjamas, and headed to the bathroom. The door to the bedroom where Mary and Anna were sleeping was cracked open, and he gently pressed it closed without looking through. The possibility of seeing his wife lying in their bed was just… not something he was ready to think about just yet. 

He brushed his teeth, switched out the light, and closed the office door behind him. He leaned back against it for a moment and exhaled. He felt like he was staying at a distant relative’s house; it didn’t feel remotely like home. But then again, he hadn’t felt like he was at home for quite a while now, not since… 

He exhaled, picked his phone up from the desk, and then sat on the bed, staring at Sherlock’s last text for a full minute before tapping out a reply.

_I’ll come over in the morning._

Within seconds, there was a reply: _I’ll look forward to it. -SH_

***


	4. Four

John rounded the corner onto Baker Street at a half-jog. Crowded trains and two fucking station changes, and then he’d spilt his coffee on a woman who’d looked ready to murder him. He’d started to think he’d never get here, but now he was on this familiar street, the crimson awning of Speedy’s just in sight. His heart leapt into his throat.

One minute later, he stood before the door, keys in hand, heart pounding. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever set foot in this building again. He turned the key in the lock and took a steadying breath before stepping into the familiar entryway. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the dim light. It looked exactly the same as he remembered: same wallpaper, same table against the far wall, same smells of dust and Mrs. Hudson’s rosy potpourri and a whiff of a harsh chemical cleaner. He glanced up the stairway and panicked for a fleeting moment. Should he have texted Sherlock to confirm that he still lived here? But the key had still been on the ring, and why else would he have kept it if not to… do whatever it was he and Sherlock did together these days. 

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, and tried to ignore the sudden twisting in his gut. This was real. _Real_.

“Come in!” he heard in a familiar sing-song voice, and pushed open the door to see Mrs Hudson emerging from the kitchen holding a tray laden with teacups and a steaming pot. She smiled widely at John. “Oh, it’s such a relief to see you back on your feet again! But where is Anna?”

“Erm. Mary took her this morning to the…” John frowned, realizing he had no idea exactly where she was. 

“Of course she did, probably for the best.” 

“Right.” John stared blankly at her for a moment: did that mean he brought Anna here often? 

“I bought more of those biscuits she likes, to help with her teething. I’ll bring them up for you to take with you.”

John heard the words wind past his ears, but they didn’t register. Across the room, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, wrapped up in a dark blue dressing gown and applying rosin to the bow of his violin, as if he’d never been gone at all. He looked up and smiled at John then, and John felt the floor shift beneath his feet.

“Oh, you look a bit pale, dear!” Mrs Hudson said, and John startled, surprised to see her standing so close. “Are you sure you should be out and about so soon?”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I’m just… fine.” He turned back to look at Sherlock again and felt a wave of emotion.

Mrs Hudson patted his arm gently. “You need a nice cuppa. Sherlock said you were coming, so I made enough for the two of you.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He crossed to sit in the chair opposite Sherlock, not quite letting himself sink back into it. Was he dreaming? He squeezed the arms of his chair tightly, until his fingernails dug painfully into the worn leather. The last time he’d sat here… He pushed the thought away and looked up to see Sherlock watching him with a strange expression. 

“Oh Sherlock, this mess!” Mrs. Hudson tutted from the kitchen.

“That will be all, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, not looking away from John. 

“You need a new flatmate to keep you right. John, perhaps you know someone?”

“ _Mrs Hudson_!” There was an edge of tension in Sherlock’s voice now, and John shot him a warning look out of sheer habit. She sighed in mock exasperation, but her footsteps began to recede towards the door. Once it was closed behind her, Sherlock set the violin bow aside. “Are you all right?”

John hesitated for a moment, surprised by the question. Was Sherlock… _concerned_ about him? “Yes. Maybe.” 

“Have your memories returned?”

“No. Not at all.” He forced himself to look away from Sherlock, to take in the room around him. It was different, now that he had a moment to look more closely — new bits and bobs, slightly more clutter, and none of his own things. A box of what appeared to be baby toys was pushed up against the fireplace, and a few papers covered with crayon scribbles were tacked up on the wall alongside crime scene photos. John frowned. 

Sherlock leaned forward and poured tea into two cups. “Then I imagine you have questions.”

“God, yes.” Where to begin? He’d lain awake for hours the night before, doing nothing but thinking of all the questions he wanted to ask. “I suppose the first question is _how_?” 

“Yes, of course. I admit I didn’t expect you to follow me onto the roof, as you’re generally more cautious than I am, but—”

“No, no.” John closed his eyes against a sudden well of frustration. “Not the accident. I mean _you_.” He took a deep breath. “I saw you jump off of Bart’s. I saw your body on the ground. I went to your _funeral_. I visited your grave and--” He looked up again. “Believe me, I wanted it not to be true, but… the fact that it isn’t… I don’t…” He shook his head, swallowed hard. The grief was still there, he realized, even in this body that had long ago moved past it. A little digging and its edges were exposed, raw and red.

Sherlock’s face softened completely. “Right, of course. Severe retrograde amnesia.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze raking over John’s face. “You have no memories at all from the last four years?”

“None. It’s as if… the TARDIS dropped me off here or something.” Sherlock squinted at him in confusion and John managed a choked laugh. At least some things hadn’t changed. “Until a few days ago I believed you were dead, so this is all rather a shock.” 

“Yes.” The matter-of-fact tone ought to have been infuriating, but it was strangely comforting.

“And I don’t understand how any of this happened.”

“The _how_ is unimportant. I think you’d find the _why_ far more interesting.” 

John blinked at him. “Yes. That’s… yes.”

Sherlock handed a cup of tea to John and sat back again. He hesitated a moment more, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Just as John thought he might burst from the suspense, Sherlock finally spoke. ”Nearly everything that happened was done to defeat Moriarty once and for all. In retrospect, I ought to have included you in the plan. At the time I thought it was best if you were kept out of harm’s way, but…” He hesitated and stroked fingers over his lips, absently. “You are my best friend. I will always regret the pain I caused you. I allowed you to think the worst for two years, and--” 

“Two years,” John repeated. It had been only months for him. Living with this pain for two years was difficult to imagine.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s jaw clenched slightly. “I spent most of it undercover in Asia and eastern Europe, hunting down leads and alerting MI6 to the presence and identity of criminals in Moriarty’s network. Some I… neutralized myself. Others were challenging enough that the professionals needed to be called in.”

 _Two years_. John shook his head in disbelief. The thought of Sherlock hiding in plain sight in a world that thought him dead, being a gritty sort of James Bond was nothing short of… He pressed his lips together. _Christ_. “That’s incredible.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “It… what?”

John slid forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “You were a spy, then? With disguises and tech gear and fancy weapons?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. “Well… yes. I mean, no. It wasn’t quite like… You think it’s incredible?”

“It’s fucking amazing. Jesus, Sherlock, I knew you were brilliant, but I didn’t know you were capable of being a bloody action hero.”

“I wasn’t…” Sherlock looked away for a moment, clearly bewildered. “So you aren’t… angry.”

“Oh.” John pursed his lips. “I was before, wasn’t I? I suppose I ought to be. But…” He looked down at his hands, frowning. Moriarty had to be stopped, and Sherlock was the only one who could have done it. John couldn’t have gone with him. He was an army doctor, not a commando, and certainly not undercover agent material. He would’ve been shit at it, negative help. It would have been a relief to know Sherlock was alive, of course. Perhaps John could have been a contact point in London, do his part from afar? But no, John knew himself better than that. If he’d known Sherlock was out in the world and in constant danger, would he have been able to sit idly at home and do nothing about it?

No. _Hell_ , no. 

And even knowing all of this, he — his past/future self — had been very angry at Sherlock for a long time. It was hard to fathom that now, sitting here, when all he could feel was grateful that Sherlock was alive and well. 

John looked up again, and the expression on Sherlock’s face was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was an expression that spoke volumes about the man wearing it, who had seen John’s fury and hurt and had taken it in, had even learned from it. This wasn’t the Sherlock he’d known — this Sherlock was four years older, wiser, _better_. This Sherlock was capable of remorse and empathy, and so clearly not the machine John had accused him of being with his almost-last words to him.

No, not last. 

John couldn’t stop himself then: he set the tea on the table and and rounded it to stand in front of Sherlock. He held out his hand and Sherlock frowned at it, forehead creased with concern.

“John—”

“Just come here, will you?”

Sherlock took a steadying breath and stood and John was momentarily lost in the reality of him: diffused light from the window softening the sharp features of his face, his hair a wild halo, his eyes wide and vividly blue. John felt something clench in his chest, and he stepped forward and pulled Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock’s entire body stiffened against him, and for a moment, John thought he’d made a horrible mistake, but then Sherlock relaxed and slid his arms around John’s shoulders, pressed his nose into John’s neck. John closed his eyes and held him a moment more, startled by the rightness of it. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, pulling him even closer, and it was suddenly too much. John took a deep breath and stepped back again. 

“Look… I have no idea what’s happened in the last few years. I feel like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. All I know right now is that I get a second chance with you, and for that I’m grateful.” He swallowed down the sudden emotion in his throat and took another step backward, ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m grateful as well.” Sherlock’s voice was strained. “More than you know.”

“Good.” John turned to look at their chairs again as an awkward silence stretched about between them. Jesus, had he really punched Sherlock the first time around? He stuffed his hands in his pockets, suddenly desperate for a change of topic. “I just realized I’ve no fucking clue who the current prime minister is.”

Sherlock laughed, and the sound of it resonated in John’s chest. “I’ve deleted it, so I’m no help there.”

John grinned at him, relieved. “So some things haven’t changed.” He crossed to sit in his chair again and sat, feeling lighter than he had done in days. Hell, _months_. He reached for his teacup again. “You defeated Moriarty in the end, though. Did he really shoot himself in the head?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together and he looked away. “Some parts of the plan didn’t go exactly the way I’d anticipated.”

“And his network?”

“I thought I’d taken them all out, but Moriarty was even more clever than I’d given him credit for. And that’s what we’ve been working on this last year and a half.”

John felt a pulse of excitement. “Is that how I wound up falling from the roof of a garden shed?”

One corner of Sherlock’s lips turned up. “I didn’t expect you to follow me, especially not after forbidding me from doing it.”

John snorted. “Why am I not surprised that you still ignore the advice of your doctor, after all of these years? I suppose you lost the lead you were following.”

Sherlock sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “No, we continued to work on that while you were in hospital. It was a dead end, as it turns out.”

John blinked. “We?”

“Mary and I. She’s a far better climber than you are. I should’ve brought her along in the first place.”

A familiar heat began to build at the base of John’s skull. “You… took my _wife_ back up on the same roof I’d just fallen off of, while I was in a coma?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock shrugged casually, but a second later, his expression changed completely. “Oh. Mary. Yes, that’s…” He took a deep breath and looked down into his tea cup.

“What?”

Sherlock took a very long drink of tea and swallowed audibly. “It was her idea; I just followed her.” 

“I’m not about to believe that. How the hell did you rope her into a such a ridiculous stunt?”

“None of it came to anything, so it hardly matters now.”

John clenched his jaw for a moment, considering. “You’re right. It doesn’t. It’s not as if I know a thing about her. She could be a former Olympic gymnast for all I know.” An image filled his mind of Mary leaping from the roof of a garden shed, doing an elaborate set of flips, and then sticking the landing.

Sherlock stared back at him for a moment, and then looked away. “How are things with Mary?” 

John snorted. “How the hell should I know? She’s a complete stranger to me. I can see that she is someone I could love, but--”

“You do love her. I suppose it hasn’t been easy, but…” Sherlock trailed off as John’s head snapped back around to look at him, and he picked up his tea cup and feigned great interest in its contents once again.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” 

“No, you started to say something about my marriage not being easy. What does that mean?” He’d had no indication of trouble in any of his interactions with Mary. 

Sherlock sighed. “This is not a conversation you should have with _me_ , John.”

“Why not?” 

“Mary is my friend as well. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Since when do you care about appropriate?” 

“We agreed we would all be honest with each other, but your memory loss has altered the parameters. Mary and I haven’t discussed—”

John rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus, Sherlock! I’m stumbling in the dark here, and you’re worried about boundaries? Have you become a marriage counselor in your spare time?”

“It’s a complex situation. That’s all I feel entitled to say.” 

“That’s reassuring.” John intended to glare at him, but the expression on Sherlock’s face was so serious that he couldn’t manage much more than a glint of annoyance. “You said there was a case?”

“There is, though you remember none of the details now. To be frank, I’m not sure this is a good time to review them.”

“You think I have anything better to do today?” John sank back into the chair and folded his arms over his chest.

Sherlock stared back at him for a long moment, considering. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t use your assistance, though.” He stood and untied the sash on his dressing gown, and John found his eyes drawn to his long fingers. “There is something you can help me do this morning.” He slid out of the dressing gown and slung it over one shoulder. “Give me ten minutes.”

John found he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the brilliance of Sherlock’s smile. “Absolutely.”

*****

“I’m a bit out of practice with this sort of thing, but if there’s anything you’re expecting me to do here—”

“I recommend the pastries,” Sherlock replied, eyes fixed on the menu.

“Erm… right.” John glanced around the small cafe. It seemed completely ordinary; there was nothing in the 1980s-era decor that even hinted at illegal activities. A dozen customers were seated at small tables, several with laptops and most with shades of hair not typically found in nature. John looked back down at the menu and wondered how the hell ordering a pastry would help.

“Can I get you boys anything?”

“Yes, I believe you can,” Sherlock said, and it was all John could do not to gape at the tone of his voice. He risked a glance up over the top of the menu to see Sherlock smiling up at the server, a reedy young man with a sideswipe of blue hair and a startling number of piercings in his ears. “What would you recommend?”

The server flashed him a sly grin and cocked out one hip. “The regular coffee is shite, but the espresso drinks are good. If you like that sort of thing.”

“I do,” Sherlock replied, his voice dipping low, and John felt his face heat. Sherlock was flirting with the server. _Flirting_. 

“We’ve got some specials that aren’t on the menu, if you’re interested.” 

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and gave the server a very clear once-over with his eyes. “Absolutely.”

The server wet his lips and gave John a quick, almost dismissive glance. “What can I get for you and your boyfriend?”

“I’m not his—” John said automatically, and then stopped himself, something twinging in his stomach. “Coffee, black. And a… pastry. Whatever’s fresh.”

The server nodded, though his attention was fully on Sherlock. “And you?”

“Something sweet. Surprise me.”

“Maybe I will.” The server winked and turned away, more swing in his step than was strictly necessary to walk across a coffee shop.

John blinked after him and then turned to stare at Sherlock. He had no idea what to say to that ridiculous display of… _ridiculousness_. Sherlock looked up at him then, and John felt himself flush even more. 

“What the hell was that?” he finally managed.

Sherlock turned to look appreciatively at the server again, who’d chosen that moment to bend over and wipe a spill off the floor. “What do you mean?”

John opened his mouth and closed it again, and looked ceilingward for a long moment. “Were you… flirting with him?”

“I certainly hope so.” Sherlock tugged his phone from his pocket and tapped furiously at the screen.

“Why?”

“Why not?” He didn’t look up from the screen.

John pressed his lips together and leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice to a whisper. “He’s got something to do with the case, then?”

The server appeared tableside with a tray and Sherlock tucked his phone into his pocket again.

“Black coffee and a cinnamon bun,” he said, setting a mug and a small plate before John, “and something sweet and creamy for you, handsome stranger.” He set a tall glass mug topped with a swirl of whipped cream in front of Sherlock, along with a folded piece of paper. “And strictly off the menu, of course.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock swiped a bit of the cream from the top of the drink with one finger and sucked it off, and the server gave him a lascivious wink. 

It was all John could do to keep his face impassive. He picked up a fork and stabbed it into the cinnamon bun with far more force than he’d intended. The plate slid perilously toward the edge of the table. 

“Let me know if you want anything else.”

“I will,” Sherlock said, and _Jesus_ , John really hadn’t needed to know his voice could sound like that. 

When the server was finally out of earshot, he whispered, “What was that about?”

Sherlock tucked the folded note into a pocket without even looking at it. “I wanted his number.” He lifted the mug to his lips and took a careful sip.

John blinked at him. “His number.”

“Yes. That’s what one normally does when faced with an attractive stranger one would like to shag.”

John snorted a laugh before he could stop himself, and then shook his head and looked down again. “You… you’re interested? In _him_?” He picked up a knife and tackled the cinnamon bun with it.

“I get bored on occasion.”

“And you…” John stopped and shook his head, unable to finish processing the thought. Cinnamon bun. _Focus_. He sawed off a large chunk and stuffed it in his mouth to give himself time to think. He chewed and swallowed, and took a sip of the shite coffee. “I thought this wasn’t your… area.”

Sherlock set his mug down again. “You’re generally a much better wingman than this.”

John could only gape at him in response. An image of the two of them watching the crowd at a gay bar filled his mind, and he closed his eyes. He had no idea if that was a product of a vivid imagination or an actual memory.

“So,” he began once he was certain his voice would remain steady, “is this something we do often?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pushed his mug away and winced. “I can’t drink any more of that. Ready to move on?” He stood and crossed to the counter to pay, leaving John staring after him.

After a thoroughly nauseating amount of eyesex with the server over the counter, Sherlock turned to John again and said, “Shall we?” as if none of it had happened at all. 

John felt like his head was spinning. Was this normal, then? Did Sherlock actually date people, or was it just casual sex he was interested in? When had this started? And was it just men he was interested in? His mind filled with an image of himself and Mary sitting across a table from Sherlock and the server, the four of them enjoying dinner like… couple friends. He felt nauseated all over again.

Sherlock stalked down the pavement in front of him, hopefully oblivious to John’s inner turmoil. Oh, hell — who was John kidding? Sherlock probably found John’s discomfort highly amusing. 

He jogged to catch up. “So did he give you his number, then?”

“Probably.”

“And you’re going to… ring him up?”

“I expect so.” Sherlock stared straight ahead, but the corners of his lips twitched just slightly.

John took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So you… date people.”

“I doubt you’d call it dating.”

“What do you call it?” John asked, and winced almost immediately. “Actually, no, don’t—”

“Fucking, while crude, is perhaps a more appropriate descriptor.”

John groaned. “Jesus, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nearly grinned. “Don’t tell me I’ve offended you.”

“No, no. Fuck no, in fact. It’s just that—” John hesitated a moment before continuing. “I thought you were married to your work.”

“I remain so. However, I’m not always faithful.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I’m sorry, all right? This is all very new to me. I’ve never thought of you as… like that.”

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Yes, you have.”

“I haven’t. Wait, what do you mean?”

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he were about to make a scathing remark, but stopped himself. He sighed and turned the corner at a faster pace, and John had to jog once again.

“When I say I haven’t,” he continued, panting now, “I mean as of my time. I know that—”

“No, you’ve thought about it before then as well.” Sherlock stopped and looked up at the address of the house they were standing under. He fished the folded paper out of his pocket and read it, and then looked up again. “Here we are.”

John glanced at the paper in Sherlock’s fingers. On it was written a street address and what appeared to be a jumble of nonsense words. He frowned. “What the hell is this?”

“The address of our next lead.” Sherlock took a few steps backward to see further up the building. “But how best to enter?”

John stared at him for a long moment, and then it all clicked in his addled brain. “So he wasn’t… you… Oh, God.”

“Former Homeless Network,” Sherlock said, still frowning up at the roof. “He entered some sort of employment training program and got a job at that cafe, but he remains a good informant.”

John laughed, relief sweeping over him. “You are such a cock sometimes. Jesus, you almost had me.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. ”No, John -- I definitely had you.”

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned. 

*****

**Author's Note:**

> As noted above, this fic is currently on hiatus, and may remain unfinished.


End file.
